


Blood of the Covenant

by lobsterkaijin



Series: Exsanguinatus [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dubious Consent, Dystheism, Gen, Historical Fantasy, Human Sacrifice, Incest, Misotheism, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ritual Sex, Sacrifice, Sibling Incest, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-02-04 16:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18608305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobsterkaijin/pseuds/lobsterkaijin
Summary: Xerxes — a city of milk and honey, arts, culture, knowledge, and gold. Raised to the sky by the gods, resting on a sea of cloud, held in place only by the benevolence of its creators, its name is synonymous with abundant wealth and prosperity. Proud and noble, its people see themselves as on top of the world. Draped in the love of their king and blessed by his abundance,oh!With the hand of god backing them, who could topple such a great nation?





	1. Et Tenebrae

**Part I — XERXES.**

* * *

“Now let’s see if you can name this one, dearest.”

A little pair of hands run along the fabric she’s holding up. It’s deeply dyed and rough around where the rose pattern repeats. He pulls it apart at its two ends, and it stretches slightly. “Hm, is it chiffon?”

“Bravo! Now tell me what it’s made of.”

“Silk!” His hands cover up his giggles. “That’s one’s easy.”

She quirks a brow. “Would I sell this to a noble in need of a sleeping robe?”

“No! But you’d sell it to Miss Pashmina to wear as a scarf to His Highness’ party.”

“You little—!” She throws the fabric over his head in mock anger. “How did you know?”

He refashions the fabric until he’s made a floor-length dress out of it, where the chest is completely bared, exactly like the one Pashmina de Nero came in wearing yesterday. He sticks his nose up and spits out a “Not good enough!” every time he points at a fabric. The foulards, the georgettes, the khadis, and lawns, all receive the same harsh rejection that Pashmina handed out. There was a saying that beggars could not be choosers, but maybe that woman in all her disheveled state did not get the message.

She would’ve loved to spectate the rest of her son’s performance, but the devil herself had come hollering from down below. “ _Romana_! Romana de Fenicottero! Where is my scarf! I hate having to wait!”

“Hush now, Basilios, before she’s at our door, get going! And leave the chiffon behind!”

Just as he’s wriggled out of the fabric and tossed it onto the table, the woman stormed her way up the steps and invited herself in. She made it past Aunt Marina’s guard dog? Basilios peers around the corner of the doorway to see the hellhound itself strewn across the top of the stairs, its rolls spilling over the edge of the first step. It snaps its head to stare straight at Basilios, and he lets out a squeak, hiding behind the pillar. That ferocious beast held _death_ in its gaze. Only a fearless woman could look Gritzi straight in its beady little eyes. Well, only a fearless woman could walk around with all parts of herself falling out of her garb.

It was only then he heard the argument between his mother and her customer. “Dear gods, woman! Do you expect me to pull fabric from a horse’s hindquarters?"

“How dare you! Do you know who I am—”

Time to go.

Between Gritzi and Romana, he’d take the old bastard any day. The forthcoming death would be swift and sweet. Basilios takes a careful step forward. As soon as his sandal touches the ground, Gritzi perks up. _Venan guide my path_ , he prays, then takes another step, and another. With every foot forward, the dog tenses, winding up its body until its haunches are raised skyhigh, and its drool is soaking the ground with its hunger. Both Gritzi and Basilios breathe heavily. Basilios plots his escape. Gritzi prepares to feast.

The point of no return has been passed, it’s now or never, he must break fast. Like a whip’s crack he’s off. As if reading the momentum in his muscle, Gritzi sets forward. Basilios narrowly avoids his pursuer’s lolling tongue, though the slobber is hot on his trail, droplets of it splashing on his foot. If he didn’t pick up the pace then that would be all over his face. Thank the gods the loft is circular and Gritzi isn’t smart enough to read his plan. He runs all the way around the railing with Gritzi’s fuming, heavy breath making the hair on his neck stand straight up. Just when it thinks it’s got him, Basilios dives down backside first to take a tumble down the steps.

When he turns to look at the barbarian at the top of the stairs, he can’t help but be smug. The dumb dog never learned to traverse a staircase. Another victory secured for Basilios Emidio de Fenicottero! Ah, but for the victor the red bell tolls. The back of his legs throb. Gritzi might just be able to steal a victory when he comes back later that day.

Once he’s climbed over the last barrier between him and the market, a wrought iron gate that he can never get open on his own, he finds himself in the heart of Xerxes greeted by a sea of faces and fanfare. Golden banners hang over the city’s arches. Xerxes’ crescent sun paints the robes red and drapes the street in dandelions and roses. Wreaths wrap around the Pillars of Solumn where the Silene Cathedral stands a behemoth in the distance. Come sunset, it will cast a shadow over all of Xerxes. Basilios bows his head and prays, “Of darkness, to darkness once again.” Whoever catches sight of it recites the same humble prayer before going about their way.

Somewhere the city’s anthem is being mangled, but because this is a day of celebration, whoever’s doing it won’t be arrested. Another fearless soul. Basilios sticks to the shade to follow the source of the music up ahead, weaving through Mister Avarro’s amaretto baskets that he was desperate to sell before the end of the season, and ducking under the table where Mister Romulus laid his reeds to rest, until he arrives at a crowd encircling a couple of street rats, one on a tambourine and another on a trumpet.

At first Basilios thinks they’re amateur musicians, and that’s why they were playing so poorly. Sir Tambourine lost the beat every second measure and Sir Trumpet stumbled to compose himself as he blasted along sheet music that looked like it’d seen better days, until he gradually lost patience and blew so hard in Sir Tambourine’s ear it sent him flying into the table behind him. Oh! This was a _comedy_ routine, not a musical number! Basilios laughs along with the crowd. The only person not laughing was Miss Junia, whose wooden statue of Videren had just been split in half. Poor woman, Videren doesn’t forgive blasphemy, and neither would she, it seems.

Basilios wanders back into the shade after it becomes apparent she’s never going to stop yelling at them for ruining her chances at getting her sight back. What was she so upset about? Didn’t people say all your other senses get better when you lose one of them? He’d love to possess the hearing of a bat, or be able to sniff out food like a dog! It might even be fun to be blind! Then he wouldn’t have to see Miss Pashmina’s bits and pieces.

He giggles and lets his eyes fall closed. Is this what bats see? Once he gets used to it, balancing with his eyes closed wasn’t so bad. It takes about five minutes before he manages to bump into someone (whose husband gives him an earful over keeping his hands off other people’s wives), and another five to wander into an alleyway and get caught up in a fight between strays.

With his ankles stinging and the sun beating down on him, he seeks the shade yet again, squatting by the bakery steps. There’s a woman sobbing on the balcony up above that he didn’t have to look up at to hear. Was it actually that loud, or had his hearing already gotten better? Wow! What did Miss Junia ever have to complain about? He only has to strain a little bit to hear Mister Terravici yelling at Miss Sabina again through the bakery’s open window. After all these years, she still hadn’t learned to make the solstice _taralli dolce_ , oh no, and the solstice celebration was tonight. It’s true what they say — Philosenes don’t know anything about dessert.

What else could he pick up on with his newfound gift? There’s a kid splashing through a puddle, a dog barking at a wall, and… wait, what was that? A rumbling growing louder and louder, deeper than the darkness behind his eyes. It might as well be right in his ear, for it wholly takes over his senses, until there’s nothing left but that dreadful sound! His heart is caught in his throat, he’s almost too afraid to open his eyes.

“Coo.”

_Coo?_

With one eye open he turns his head to peek at the source, and he almost relaxes when nothing is in his immediate space, until he turns his head the other way and sees a bright orange eye staring back at him. If anyone questioned him on the nature of his scream in this very moment, he would insist it was a grown man’s scream, and not one that was so high-pitched it made all the strays within the area howl. The offending pigeon flies away to reveal soft eyes and a toothy smile.

“‘Silo!”

“Marcus.”

The boy throws his arms around Basilios. “Hiya!”

“That’s a new one.” Basilios loosely returns the hug, turning his face to keep Marcus’ hair out of his mouth. He didn’t want to spend all night picking the coils out of his teeth. “Where did you find it?”

Marcus holds out his arm and his new friend comes fluttering back to perch on his elbow. It’s a soft blue grey, with shiny shimmering wings that flickered in the sunlight. So pretty, this one definitely needed a pet or two. “Her name’s Fritta! I found her in the courtyard.”

“You took her from His Highness’ garden?” Anyone else would be scandalized, but Basilios only raises a brow as he runs his fingers through the bird’s warm feathers. Not a speck of dust comes off her. Marcus bathed her well.

“She belongs to no man.”

Basilios smiles at the solemn look on his friend’s face. “A lady’s heart could change.”

“As they always do.” Marcus sighs, gaze falling to the distance, forlorn. 

“You sound like Silvius when Camilla danced with Justus for last year’s winter solstice.”

“Or when Faustina stepped on his carnation at the Fertility Festival!”

“How about when Lavinia told him she didn’t like him anymore after he cut his hair?”

“Or when Valentia rejected his offer to dance at the Spring of Alms celebration?”

“Which _one_?”

They fall into a fit of laughter so loud that the baker runs out with a broom and yells at them to go find something better to do. He chased them for half a block and then disappeared, but they kept running, running until they couldn’t see him or his curly moustache, until the grand arches began to crumble and the cobblestone cracked. The wide open streets and broad complexes of the market fall away around them, thinning out the more they run. Here their exchange of words is as sparse as the population, and they slow to a stop and drink in the hazy air. It’s still daytime, Basilios is sure. There’s a little doubt though, the tiniest prick in the back of his mind, that maybe they’ve stayed out too late, and that’s why the sun here is so dim, and the shadows are so long. He thinks of his prayer and recites it in his head, and turns to look for the cathedral, sighing in relief when he can still spot it even from here.

Marcus attempts to whistle to a feathery friend but none appear, and he clings to Basilios’ side, slipping his hand into his friend’s. The warmth is unwelcome, but when he tries to pull his hand away Marcus tightens his grip.

A beat passes between them before Basilios is asking, “Where is Silvius? And Lucia, too?”

Marcus is so silent that Basilios thinks he didn’t hear the question. Following his line of sight, Basilios is facing an alleyway where he can make out a dead dog and a litter of what looked like pups. Well, they could’ve been pups, fit the general shape. With the way they nudged at their mother’s bloated corpse, it’s clear they were _supposed_ to be. Basilios understands why his friend lost the ability to speak. He’s completely focused on the lack of faces and the abundance of eyes. They all turn to stare at Basilios. 

“Marcus?”

“Th-They, um, they’re gettin’ ready for the, the celebration.

Tendrils of shadow reach out to them. Did the dead dog move, or is it just his imagination? Five, no ten, no fifteen eyes followed every step they took. Even when he wasn’t looking, he knew they were there.

“D-Do you remember the way we came?” Marcus shakes his head. 

“Do you see anyone that can help?” Marcus doesn’t answer. He’s shivering.

If this were Silvius, he’d remember and lead them back to the market street, and if this were Lucia, she’d find someone nice to help show them the way. He bites his lip, thinking for a bit. Then he snaps out of it and pulls his friend along, up a slanted path and through a different alleyway. He can’t remember if they’d actually come this way. It’s not the way that matters though. He hushes Marcus’ panicked rambling with Allocer’s prayer. Of darkness, to darkness once again. The shadows. Follow the shadows. On the summer solstice they point away from the cathedral and towards the palace.

The sky grew brighter, and they were finding themselves back on the market street, crossing through a boundary they weren’t really sure existed. Looking behind him, Basilios cannot see where they’d just come from. There isn’t darkness, but there isn’t light, there isn’t _anything_. Where the shadows had grown longer and longer, time had moved so quickly in the dark, but time hadn’t moved at all on the market. These shadows were at a standstill. A few minutes or a few hours, how long had they been gone?

Basilios takes a deep breath and lavishes in the clarity. He’d ask Marcus if he was okay, but Marcus was busy surrounding himself with all his pigeons, gently cooing back at them as they swarmed him with their love and affection. Feathers stuck out of his hair, out of his robes, out of his nostrils even. He looked so much like Venan that Basilios had a good laugh, and the weight of the shadows lifted.

Later when the sun has begun to set, and they’d spent the better part of the day avoiding the western side of the market by kicking around stones and throwing pebbles in the water canal, Basilios asks, “Is Miss Lorena going to make you sit in at the king’s party?”

Marcus sighs and throws a pebble straight down. The splash gets on his sandals. “As usual.”

“Oh.” Basilios deflates, and sits with his legs dangling through the slits in the railing **.**

“I know why _she_ has to stay, but why do _I_?” He doesn’t pick up another pebble.

“They sound boring.”

“They’re _really_ boring. Bunch’a old people makin’ eyes at each other.”

Watching the rocks Marcus kicked around roll into the canal gives Basilios an idea. “If His Highness can invite all his friends, and all his friends can invite all their friends, shouldn’t you be able to invite your friends?”

Marcus whirls around. “You think so?” He’s excited for a moment before he frowns again. “The Fontanas and Caecilius’s will let Silvius and Lucia go, but Miss _Romana_...”

Basilios rolls his eyes and flops down on the ground. Mother wouldn’t even let him _look_ at His Highness when he came strolling through the villaggio. “It’s okay, three out of four isn’t so bad.”

“‘Silo, no! We can’t go without you!” Marcus’ form casts a shadow over his face. “Do I need to go get Silvius?”

“Gods no, spare me, please!”

“Then don’t say that! We’ll get Lucia to make something up!”

Basilios sits up. Watching the water flow by, he imagines it carrying away those pups and their dead mother, washing the dirty street of whatever sin they’d committed to deserve that fate, like how Allocer would wash all of Xerxes’ sins away. Whatever lies he told his mother today, they’d be forgiven.

His resistance wanes. “...Let’s go find Lucia.”


	2. E Tenebris

**Part I — XERXES.**

* * *

When his mother received the last shipment of silks from the southern island, the merchants had brought with them all sorts of treats, one being cinnamon-glazed roasted pecans. Just the thought, oh! It’s enough to make his mouth water. Their trek to the Villa di Caecilius has Basilios wishing he’d grabbed some from home before setting out, because he is certain he will die of hunger before they ever reach the villa, and then he’ll never have another pecan again!

“I can hear your stomach all the way from here.” Marcus snickers. He’s up on a ledge above Basilios, bouncing.

“Why can’t you just get your pigeons to fly me up there?” comes Basilios’ breathless reply. He’s leaning against the pale rock with his hand against his heart. Marcus is a mountain-length away, it’d take eons to reach him! His bones were turning to dust as they spoke! Well, so be it. If roasting on the mountainside was to be his fate, then he’d take it over having to climb the rest of the way. “This doesn’t _feel_ like a shortcut!”

Marcus groans. “If we went _your_ way then we’d be _ancient_ by the time we got there!”

“Great! Now we’ll just be _dead_.” He kneels down and hugs his knees close to his chest. His backside hurt, his ankles stung, and his hands were all dirty too. As much as he wanted to ignore Marcus’ complaints, his acquired extraordinary hearing abilities made it impossible, and that made this worse. Sure the regular way had a lot of stairs, and he’d have to talk to the guards at the gate that were much too stern, but there were nice marble statues of Venan and Videren along the way, the trees had soft plush leaves, and in the lower courtyard there was a water fountain and a moat where he could watch all the rainbow wrasse swim on by as he hopped over the floating stepping stones. Better than climbing a _mountain_. All he can see is rock.

Marcus drops down beside him. Basilios can feel him staring, but he keeps his head down. He can stare all day! It won’t make a difference. No more climbing was happening, the _nave de Fenicottero_ had docked at port and was there to stay. Marcus kneels down to his level. Basilios is resolute and refuses to look at him. Alas! Marcus knows his weakness too well, and in one last stand, puts his wet finger in Basilios’ ear. 

He deserved the screaming he got and the silent treatment thereafter, and he deserved to be left in the dust as Basilios’ spite motivated him to climb faster and get there first. He especially deserved Lucia’s disbelief and the embarrassment of having to explain how he could lose to someone who couldn’t carry anything heavier than a basket of squash.

Except they’d been at this for a while, so the novelty’s worn off.

“Wait ‘til Silvius hears _this!_ ” Marcus had to keep closing her slack jaw for her. “I don’t get it! ‘Silo’s the worst at everything!” 

“You should’ve seen him, Lucia! I thought he was possessed!” 

“Oh sure, it’s a demon’s fault you lost.”

“We didn’t come here to talk about Marcus losing,” Basilios interrupts, peeking his head through the openings in the railing. “We’ve got important stuff to do!”

“Hey, where’d you get a snack?” Lucia reaches over and dusts some crumbs off his face. 

He grimaces when Lucia tries it again and ducks out of the way before she can make contact. “Not telling! It’s not important anyways.”

“Mama says the life of a busy body is hard because they have ants in their robes.” 

“Ants? Where?” He spends a solid minute wiggling in his clothes, going so far as to remove the top layer to shake free any invaders. When the other two burst out laughing, he throws his robe over Lucia’s head. Now he’s not sure he even wants to go to the party with these two. He climbs into the veranda and sits as far away from them as humanly possible, sulking.

“Aw c’mon, ‘Silo! I’m just teasing!”

“This cushion is very interesting to look at. What’s it made of, Hangworm thread? So soft.”

Marcus gives Lucia a look, and creeps across the couch as slow as molasses. “Wow ‘Silo, you’re so _smart_. Have you been practicin’ with Miss Romana?”

Picking up on his game, Lucia turns into a wistful maiden, laying down on her back with her hand across her head, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “You know so much about fabrics and weaves, I feel so humbled by your presence.”

“Who can we rely on but _you_ to dress us for the party tonight?” He’s almost there. 

“With your help, maybe I’ll find my very own prince charming!” 

That came out of nowhere. Not that he doesn’t like being told how smart he is, but there’s something about their tone of voice that sinks his heart and has him tightening his hold on the pillow. Unfortunately for Basilios, his realization comes too late.

Marcus, having grabbed a set of Amestrian doebeetle pillows as weapons, is on the attack. It comes in slow motion. Basilios sees movement in the corner of his vision and turns his head. That was his first mistake, as it puts him in direct frontal contact with pillow number one, The Blue Brawler. His hand moves on instinct to protect his head — his second mistake — leaving his belly open to assault from pillow number two, The Silver Striker. Every squeal is punctuated by Lucia’s laughter. Then the deed is done. Over as soon as it started.  

That sore loser! This must’ve been revenge. Basilios glares up at Marcus, a promise of things to come, but it’s hard to take him seriously with his hair all messy.

Lucia hops over to Basilios’ side of the couch to wrap her arms around him, clinging tighter when he struggles against her.  “Okay, _now_ we can talk about the party. Marcus, you can send a letter by pigeon, right?”

He nods. “Uh-huh! I’ll send it to Silvius so he knows where to meet us. He probably won’t tell his parents he’s goin’, anyways.”

“And mine still think Miss Lorena’s a noble, so they’ll let me go if I say I was invited.”

Marcus leans forward, speaking low. “But what’re we goin’ to do about Miss Romana?”

Basilios finally gets Lucia off him. “Try not to make it _too_ weird. Last time she gave me a talk about where babies come from.”

“You didn’t sell the story! That’s not my fault!”

Marcus snickers. “You gotta make the lie real simple, or else ‘Silo’s gonna get us imprisoned for tryin’ to assassinate His Highness.”

“So then why doesn’t _Lucia_ tell the lie?” Basilios says with a huff. “Everyone believes _her_.”

“This is why you’re the smartest!”

Basilios rolls his eyes. “So is my mother. You can’t mention anything about His Highness or it’s a no. You also can’t tell her I’m invited anywhere by your guys’ parents because she’ll go to your house and ask about it. Don’t say anything about me _liking_ someone because she’ll want to meet them. Nothing happens on the market street without her knowing, so don’t make up anything about that.”

“Anything else?" 

“Don’t try to tell her someone died, is getting married, or is having a baby.”

There go plans uno through dieci. Lucia drags her hands down her face. “I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good!”

“You were _made_ for lying,” Marcus pleads, looking up from his paper. “Please Lucia, you gotta have something.”

She tries as hard as she can to wrack her brain for anything that could catch Miss Romana off guard. The Centro Menagerie would be open later that night, but Basilios and animals don’t go in the same sentence together and Miss Romana knows that. Oh, she could say they were going to take a ride in the gondolas! The lines for those were always hours long! ...But Basilios throws up on them and after the first time he went on one, he told Miss Romana he’d never do it again. Well, there was always an eating contest happening by the Fontana di Seracusa, but the Piazza Catania was too close to the market street and Miss Romana might take a walk and see they’re not there. 

Lucia groans and throws her hands up. “Even Videren can’t help me see how to make this work.”

“It’s like I said, three out of four isn’t so bad.” 

Gasping, Lucia grabs the silver doebeetle pillow and throws it at Basilios. “Don’t you dare! Or I’ll tell Silvius and then he’ll really make you sorry!”

Frowning, he squeezes the pillow close to his chest. What was the big deal anyways? They used to go on adventures all the time before he showed up. He was starting to think a lecture from Silvius would be a lot better than getting his hopes up.

Marcus comes bounding over from the table. “I finished Silvius’ note! Gippa’s the fastest flyer, so I sent it with her.”

“Wait! I got it!” Lucia starts bouncing. “Every year you say the same thing, that you want to see the choir at the cathedral, so what if we tell her we’re going to Silene?” 

It takes a moment for it to register. Basilios’ eyes grow wide. “She never goes to the cathedral...”

“And she’ll give us really fancy robes for it too!” 

Marcus grins. “And _money_.”

It’s Basilios’ turn to hit the both of them with pillows.

The way back is not as difficult when they’re taking a horse-drawn carriage down the golden ramp. Whenever Silvius is with them, he has to wonder aloud how the ramp supported itself if the upper, middle, and lower courtyards were separated by nothing but cloud. With all the stuff to look at, who cared about some clouds? They could see everything from up here, including the cathedral, which has all three of them reciting their prayer. Every time they passed through another layer, though the heights are considerable, Basilios would look over the edge to admire the statues and greenery, and to try and catch sight of the rainbow wrasse. The smaller ones might be tough to spot, but there was one particular wrasse the size of his whole body which he’d named Sir Big Fish. He’s only seen it once. He knows it’s there, he knows it’ll show itself again one day. Once they touch solid ground however, that dream is tucked away. 

Lucia is quiet as she follows with them, psyching herself up for the lie of a lifetime. It’s one thing to get Basilios to lie when he’s so bad at it and gets caught anyways, it’s another when it’s his friends doing it for him. One little slip and Miss Romana’s hawk eyes would latch on and hang her out to dry. Then she’d never let Basilios come out to play with them.

They climb over the gate, and while Marcus and Lucia choose to wrangle Gritzi, Basilios finds his mother hunched over a calico. Aunt Marina is in the kitchen preparing dinner with Daria hanging off her back, who she has to stop and chide every few minutes for grabbing onto the hanging pots. Daria is the first to spot Basilios, and she wriggles out of her carrying slip and waddles over to give him a hug. He picks her up as she’s chirping “Siros! Siros!” in his ear and carries her back into the kitchen.

“Hi there, Basilios.” Aunt Marina’s got bags under her eyes. Handing Daria back to her, he wonders what time she woke up today.

“My dearest,” Romana sings, “isn’t it a little late?” She hasn’t looked up from her threadwork.

Basilios finds a seat at the table to watch her sew. It looks like she’s making a wrap dress, but isn’t calico too scratchy and plain to make into a dress? Who’d want a dress that made them itch? Chintz is better for floral print. “I thought it was cheating to use something so cheap.”

Romana snorts and flips up her eye glass. “Bravo, you’ve got good eyes as usual, but I’m behind schedule. Calico is right within my grasp and it almost looks like what the customer asked for.” Basilios’ expression hardly changes. Gods, what a stare, like he’s seeing right through her, like… She returns to her work. “I still have three dresses to make and an evening cape. It’ll be a few hours yet before I’m able to leave for the solstice festival. Make yourself comfortable, we’ll be having dinner shortly.”

“Actually, Miss Romana,” Lucia pokes her head out from the doorway, “we had different plans.” 

“Plans?” Romana sits up. Beside her, Basilios stiffens. 

Lucia comes to stand by the table at Romana’s side, and grasps her sleeve. “Well, we’ve all been to the cathedral for the summer solstice, but ‘Silo’s the only one who hasn’t.” Basilios always thought her brown eyes couldn’t get any bigger, and then she’d start lying.

Romana’s silent. Mouth forming a tight line, disappointment paints her face a shallow green. It doesn’t look like she’s caught onto anything, so why does she look so sad? Did she really want to go to the festival with him? Basilios lays his head on her shoulder. He’s about to say he changed his mind when Romana sighs and shakes him off. “You’re right. Basilios is the only one.” 

She hasn’t said no, though she hasn’t said yes either. She adjusts her eye glass and goes back to sewing. Lucia’s mouth hangs slightly open, like she isn’t sure what just happened. Maybe Romana forgot the question? Basilios pokes at her nose to remind her. “Mama, can we go?”

Snapping out of her disbelief, Lucia pulls excitedly on Romana’s sleeve. “If we don’t leave _now_ , the line will be even _longer_ , Miss Romana!” 

Marcus comes in carrying Gritzi like a baby. “The sun’s setting really fast, are we gonna go?” 

The way she smiles at Basilios looks just like Aunt Marina did a few minutes ago. “If it’s really what you want, then you can go to the cathedral with your friends, dearest.” 

“Well, since we’re going to the cathedral...” Lucia trails off.

Romana laughs into her sleeve. “I knew there was a reason he brought you along.”  

Pushing her seat back, she gets up to go into the bedroom she shares with Basilios, and comes back carrying a large chest. She doesn’t have to tell them what it is because Basilios already knows, and excitedly proclaims, “It’s the Chest of Unwanteds!”

“Hush, I don’t want everyone knowing that!” Romana unlocks it from a key off her necklace. It pops open to a collective gasp from the children. Whenever she had a customer that was unsatisfied with her work, she wouldn’t just throw it out, oh no, but instead lock it up with the other untouchables for when she needed them. There wasn’t enough time to make Basilios and all his friends something nice to wear to the cathedral. That’s okay, they didn’t need something custom made! “Pick something out for yourselves, kids! Make sure it’s a little big though. Easier to pin it back than add more to it.”

Lucia immediately pulls out an organdy dress from the top of the pile that Basilios remembers the buyer not wanting because the flowers were too much. Well, not too much for Lucia! She hugs it close to her chest and brightens up until she’s as pink as the fabric. “Ah, a good choice, Lucia! I liked the golden threads on that one.” Romana lets her settle into the dress, and then pulls it to wrap around and under her arm so that it looks more like a tunic, and gives her the room to move maneuver the sleeves from the robe she wore underneath. She pins the tunic back with a ladybug clip. 

Marcus has taken a dive to the deepest bowels of the chest and resurfaces with a blue chiton that hung down to his ankles. Romana gives his head a playful tap. “I said a _little_ big, silly.” But Marcus is proud of himself, for he has chosen tissue fabric made of silk with interwoven silver threads, and it shimmered as he spun around, wearing it like a cape. Nothing is going to make him let it go, and she realizes this in trying to suggest another two or three robes with similar colour but not as much shine. Sighing, she ties the trailing edges of the garment into a hanging bow. He wanted it, and that’s what he got, tripping risk and all.

Basilios is left staring at the Unwanteds. There’s a dark green foulard with an unappealing sunflower pattern, and it looks like the one who sold the fabric ran out of the yellow for the pattern and had to switch to orange midway through. Next! The georgette would’ve been nice except that it’s summer and the silk is way too heavy for evening wear. Next! The blue intarsia fabric hanging off the side had a nice pattern and made for a comfortable tunic, but it was only big enough to swaddle a baby. Was there anything nice enough for evening wear? 

Oh wait, what was that? There, peeking from beneath the khakis and the khadis was the edge of a deep red kashmir. He’s gentle in moving the weight off it, and it draws a deep gasp from him when he pulls it out to marvel in its glory. Gold, silver, and purple thread draw a picture of a three-headed lion amidst a field of carnations and the sun in the background. Romana sees it and gasps. “Dearest, wait—” He doesn’t hear her until the it’s over his head and he’s revelling in the gasps of his friends.

At that moment, Balbus saunters in with his empty glass and stops dead in his tracks. “Aye! Fellas, come in here!” They don’t hear him at first so he raises his voice. “We’ve got ourselves a new king!” 

“Balbus, quit it.” He shakes off Marina’s hand and whistles for them. The rest of his foul-smelling friends crowd into the kitchen, take one look at Basilios, and burst into laughter. From somewhere downstairs, a neighbour yells at them to quiet down.

“Look at that!” 

“He’s a regular royal, I’ll tell you that much.”

Balbus hobbles over and unfurls the sleeve to get a full view of the decoration. Basilios wrinkles his nose when his uncle blows more hot air into his face, but he leans in closer to make sure Basilios can’t get away from the stench. “A _toga trabea_ , Romana? Really?” Darkness clouds so thick in his eyes that Basilios could swim in it. Staring long enough and its wrinkly hand begins to reach out to him. It’s frozen and cold and the air around it shivers and splits, it’s so close to him that he’s seeing double of it— 

Romana wedges herself between them.  “And what about it?”

He gets right in her face and jabs a finger into her shoulder. “You know damn well about it. What’s the big idea, huh?” _What’s happening to uncle Balbus?_  

“My son has an eye for the finer things.” Romana pulls Basilios closer behind her. “Is a colour a crime, now?”

Marcus and Lucia run to hide behind the table when Balbus’ friends start hooting and hollering. He grits his teeth. “Romana, you know I respect you, but you’re not making it easy to forget your _shame_.” _Why is he so angry all of a sudden?_  

“Keep your _respect_ , Balbus, it’s worth less than Gritzi’s farts.”

“Damnit, Romana! Who do you think you are?” _Does mama see the darkness too?_

She snorts. “Whoever I think I am is none of your business.” 

“First you dress him in red, and then you put him in _that_. What next? You going to march into the Palazzo di Caelus and demand he be made a pr—”

“Balbus!”  

There’s a moment of silence, and then Daria starts wailing. His daughter’s crying melts his anger. Whatever words left hanging on his tongue he spits on the ground, and hobbles back into the living room, his mumbling friends following close behind.

Romana takes a deep breath, then turns to Basilios. He’s staring into space, which he’s shaken out of with Romana placing her hands on his shoulders. She manages a small smile and says, “You look wonderful, dearest. Go out and have fun, and make sure to show off my signature so I get more customers.” When he nods slowly, she gives his forehead a flick. “ _Got_ it?” He nods faster this time. “Good.”

That time he’s okay with his friends grabbing his hands and running off with him.

The street is painted black with Silene’s shadows, save for the slivers of sunlight clinging to life through cracks in the architecture. Around them masks of all manner glitter in what little light remains. Music and laughter sets just as the sun does. Completely shrouded in darkness, the palace bids farewell to the day and greets the cathedral in the night. So ends the longest day, and so begins the journey to the longest night. Once they have both embraced the dark, the bishops and their priestesses will throw up their hymns to the sun, a final kiss goodbye to the god of light and a prayer for his blessing once again.

The complete passing of the solstice is a sombre occasion, promising of the chill that will take root in the heart of Xerxes in the coming months, until the winter solstice, the longest night, where winter’s grief will come to full fruition. Though the day is spent in celebration, the night will be spent in mourning. Unless that night is being spent in the palace.

When the gates are in sight, Marcus takes them around the back where the hedgery lay, and out pops Silvius with twigs and leaves sticking out of his hair and robes. It appeared he was dressed in some form of nice tunic, but it was hard to be sure with the splotches of mud and scrapes all over his knees. Lucia tried to clean him up to the best of her ability. This was Silvius though, there was no such thing as clean.

“I told you to wait _by_ the hedges, not _in_ them,” Marcus chides, licking his hand and using it to pat down Silvius’ wild hair.

“By, in, they mean the same thing!” He says it so matter of factly that Basilios giggles. Catching that, he pokes Basilios in the belly until the boy’s erupting into full blown laughter and complaining for him to stop. “And what’re you guys dressed so fancy for?”

Lucia actually takes him seriously and pushes him into the hedges again.

“Okay, just act natural,” Silvius says once he’s been cleaned up again, “We’re going to act like ‘Silo’s nobility from a far away land that was invited by Miss Lorena.” Lucia puts up her hand. “Oh, what’re your thoughts, Lucia?” 

“‘Silo’s a terrible actor.”

“He already looks the part! ‘Silo, just pretend like you don’t speak Xesian very well.” 

“Huh?” He was drawing shapes in the grass. “Uh, if that means I have to stay quiet, I can do that.”

“And what if the guards ask to see the Seal of the Gods?” Marcus pipes up. “What’re we goin’ to do, lie and say they forgot to give him one?” 

Silvius grins. He’s staring right at Basilios. Basilios’ eyes flit between the three of them. “...What?” 

“The far away land you come from is a _matriarchy_.” 

Lucia figures it out first. “And it would dishonour a woman for her to show the Seal of the Gods in public!” 

Basilios quirks a brow. “I’m not a woman though.”

Silvius slaps him on the back. “ _They_ don’t know that!”

Marcus shushes them, then turns to Basilios. “You’re pretty enough to be a girl.” 

Basilios frowns. He frowns as they do his hair up in a style more closely resembling a woman’s, he frowns when they adjust the _toga trabea_ so that the sleeves fit on both arms, he frowns as they’re waiting in line and he can hear nobility behind him whispering about him, and he frowns when they walk up to the guards and he’s presented for scrutiny. 

They’re hulking monsters a million feet tall, with heads the size of walnuts and thick sausage fingers that look like they could snap the handles of their spears if they squeezed too hard. Romana always said the Sky Guard were meat first and people second, but it isn’t until this moment when they’re squinting at these four children who obviously don’t belong there that Basilios understands what she meant. With the way they’re frowning and whispering to each other, it has to be obvious, so maybe they’re just playing a weird game where they make the stupid kids wait forever to make them think they had a chance and then shoot them down. Without having spoken a word, Basilios decides he does not like them and wants to go home.

“Who’re you supposed to be?” Sir Mushroom Cap says.

Marcus clears his throat and scrambles to stand between them and Basilios. Before he can say anything, Sir Six Toes recognizes him and smiles, leaning down to give him a pat on the head. “Hiya Marcus, we missed you today.” 

Sir Mushroom Cap elbows Sir Six Toes. He winces and goes back to his post, badly hiding how much that hurt him. “Never seen these three before.”

Marcus hides his hands behind him and puts on the most innocent smile he can muster. “I had to go fetch mama’s special guest.” He grins and steps back, holding his hands out to present Basilios, who attempts to look as graceful as he thinks a noble would be. When it doesn’t garner any reaction, Marcus puts his hands behind him again, and Basilios looks at his feet. “Have you heard what went on in Cyperus?” 

Sir Six Toes scratches at his head. “We don’t really get any news from over there.” 

Sir Mushroom Cap rolls his eyes. “Spit it out, Marcus.”

Marcus stammers. There was something on the tip of his tongue that he’s forgotten under the cold stare of the Sky Knight. Sweat beads on his brow. This is getting to be too much for him. He fidgets, stutters some more, fidgets again. Without missing a beat, Silvius steps to the challenge. “The current monarch was uh, executed! A matriarchal society was instilled in its place, and this is the daughter of their new queen, Princess Jovina Aemelia Juventus! The Juventus family is good friends with the Pius family. That’s why Miss Lorena invited their daughter to come observe the Xesian tradition of the summer solstice!”

Sir Six Toes nods. “Sounds reasonable. Didn’t know your mother was so well connect— Oof!” Sir Mushroom Cap has once again elbowed him.

“Where’s the Seal of the Gods?”

Silvius sputters. “You know you can’t just ask a lady to show the Seal! It’s shameful!” He says this loud enough so that the crowd behind him can hear it, and once they have, their conversation begins to grow, until there’s an outcry from men and women alike. How improper! Asking a lady to reveal the Seal? Were all Xesians like this? The line is long abandoned as people clamour around the Sky Knights to protest the treatment of the young princess and her friends. There’s pushing and shoving and someone knocks over Sir Mushroom Cap’s helmet, and now more Sky Knights have begun to pour out from the reserves to reinforce their fellow men. Try as they might, their orders to remain calm and orderly are gone unheard.

“Now, now, what’s going on here?” A voice deeper than the night strikes a hush into the mouths of the nobles. There’s a moment where Basilios is not sure if anyone is breathing, and then the nobles fall back until a perimeter is reestablished.

“P-Prince V-V-V-V—”

“Prince Vittorio!” Sir Mushroom Cap grabs Sir Six Toes and drags him down so they are bowing, and one by one the rest of the Sky Guard, as well as the guests, kneel. Basilios has never seen his friends’ eyes blown so wide. Getting the hint, they too bow, until the only two left standing are Basilios and the man behind him. 

He’s slow to turn.

From the footwear alone, Basilios knows he’s looking at _real_ nobility. Flames from the lanterns make patterns of the diamonds, transforming the two little roses on the big toes to bouquets. From the ankles up is true Amestrian gold, he knows from the shimmer alone. And what is this man dressed in but none other than a deep red _toga trabea_ , decorated with gold, silver, and purple, drawing a three-headed lion in a field of carnations with the moon and stars overhead. On his bare chest the Seal of the Gods is in full view. The man laughs, and when he does, Basilios’ eyes are drawn to his smile, and then his eyes. Those eyes are the same shade of red as his robe, and probably the same shade of red as Basilios’ face. But the most striking of all is his golden mane, like the sun had kissed the top of his head.

Prince Vittorio stifles his laughter long enough to hold out his hand, and Basilios takes it. The rumbling in his chest is one of Basilios’ favourite sounds. “My, _one_ of us is going to have to change.” 

“Um.” It takes a second to register that they are wearing almost exactly the same thing. If he thought his face couldn’t get any redder…

The prince doesn’t stop looking at Basilios as he addresses the rest of the crowd. “Welcome, Princess Jovina Aemelia Juventus of Cyperus. My apologies for the rudeness of my Sky Guard. May Allocer forgive them their transgressions this night.” Thankfully, the people seem to approve of this turn of events, and move to file back into the line. The guards return to their post around the perimeter and inside the palace, but not until every one of them has bowed again, except for the two tasked with inspection, who remain at the entrance few feet away but who are too embarrassed to come much closer than that.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Princess.” Basilios’ gaze falls to that hand that is dwarfing his, that hasn’t come close to letting go since he’d taken it. It’s warm. _All_ of him is warm. For once, he doesn’t want to pull his hand away.

”I am your host for this evening, Vittorio de Vitis, first son of His Highness King Archelaus de Vitis.”


	3. Ad Tenebras

**Part I — XERXES.**

* * *

Twisted around the wrought iron gates, the strawberry oak limbs had become entangled in trying to escape the encroaching sky juniper, and the broad velvet leaves and berry clusters locked together as a fortress to hide what lurked behind them. Tendrils of conversation had weaved their way through the marketplace to plant seeds in Basilios’ ear, but before they ever had their chance to sprout leaves and blossom into flowers of wonder, Romana had stuck her shovel into his mind and tore them out by the roots, severing any lingering curiosity and ensuring her son’s soil would remain desolate. There’s nothing behind those gates that can’t be seen down in the marketplace late evening on the Day of Rest. Up until they’d been allowed past those gates, Basilios had believed her.

Then he waltzed into the king’s garden and realized what he’d been missing.

“Everything here is so _shiny._ ” Beside him, Lucia’s eyes are blown wide. The Villa di Caecilius, with level after level carved from carrara, could not compete with the palace’s calacatta gold. There are tiers to high society as well, tiers she intends to explore, grabbing Silvius’ hand and steering his protesting self down a staircase decorated with bittersweets. 

She stops only for a second to instruct her remaining friends on their convergence point. Silvius tugs at her to no avail. “We’ll only be gone for a second! See you at the fountain!” Basilios watches them disappear into the darkness.

“Poor Silvius,” Marcus says, bowing his head to pay respects. He cycles through his grief in but a moment, and is distracted by the black nightingquails darting in and out of the bushes. For most of the year, nightingquails hibernate in their burrows, and then they come out the night of the summer solstice and remain active for that night only. “I _need_ to catch one.” He’s said that for the last two solstices and failed every time.

“Maybe change your strategy.” Basilios giggles into his hand. He’s trying to be sympathetic, really. “Let them come to you.”

“That’d work if I was trying to catch _you._ ”

Basilios’ face grows red. “H-Hey!”

Marcus grabs Basilios’ face. “Gimme your good luck, ‘Silo, and let me catch a nightingquail tonight.”

“You should be praying to Venan, not _me._ ”

Marcus grins and shakes his head. “It’s the same thing.” He runs off only after yelling a reminder to meet at the fountain directly in Basilios’ ear. He’s never prayed so long as Basilios has known him. It’s just as his mother said. The Cyperans really are godless.

Basilios’ eyes dart between nobles until they catch sight of the shining knight who’d come to his aid moments ago. He too has someone to entertain his sensibilities, a Philosean noblewoman draped in a maroon brocade dress, donning a scarf composed entirely of thousands of gold coils woven together more tightly than any fabric he’s ever seen wrapping her entire upper torso many times over. She laughs at something he says, tracing a finger down his sternum along the Seal. Gold dusted across her high cheekbones have her skin glimmering as brightly as her smile. The prince watches her with something Basilios cannot explain burning in his eyes, and Basilios’ heart sinks.

There must be something to do that isn’t testing himself on all the different fabrics laid out in front of him. His mind wanders along with his feet, eyes fixated on the blades of grass that are definitely more interesting than anything his friends must be doing, and also infinitely more interesting than the prince’s booming laughter and chiseled face and warm hands that Basilios swears burned his own all the way down to the bone, hands that would prefer to be holding a woman his own age. A woman who clearly put on the only nice things she owns regardless of their complementarity. What was she thinking, coming to the king’s palace on the summer solstice dressed like that? Brocade isn’t even that fancy, and maroon is a colour for Cascare, not Maggio. Daring to stand next to him, she must be out to embarrass him.

He hides his empty hands in the fabric of his _toga trabea._ Who needs the prince anyways? The _toga trabea_ is just as warm and just as soft, and there’s so much of it, enough to drown in. Just like that woman drowning in all her gaudy jewelry.

His eyes aren’t stinging because he’s hurt, and his eyes aren’t stinging because he’s lonely. He only wipes at them because they’re irritated. Must be the shrubbery, or the grass, or the incense. Or those beautiful flowers that’d make a gorgeous bouquet, flowers he’s currently stepping in.

At his feet lie anemones, red and violet and silver clustered together in threes. Across from it is another similar arrangement, and they follow along in the same pattern on both sides of the pathway. Among them stood the Lions of Virtue, each with a Pillar of Solumn impaled through their hearts, their jaws unhinged in fractured agony. Beside each a lantern burned, obscuring one half of their faces in darkness. Basilios climbs onto the pedestal to appreciate the delicate chisel work up close. It must have taken forever to get every little hair looking just right, and when the breeze picks up, the mane dances in the flickering light.

Basilios once heard from a travelling bookseller that one could follow the Pillars of Solumn into the clouds and see they formed arches piercing through the heavens to the land of the gods and descending down to the Silene Cathedral. _That’s impossible,_ he’d said at the time, but it wouldn’t hurt to look now, would it? The pillars are swallowed up by the sky’s shadows, and there is no way he’d be able to see the columns with Silene enveloped in the night. It’s not disappointing, he tells himself. Travelling booksellers made their living off of selling stories, his mother pointed that out to him when he first became enamoured with the traveller’s stories. He’d only given her the _one_ denarius he had that he’d received from an old woman in exchange for finding her lost cat. It’s not disappointing.

His hair stands on end when a gentle touch steals across his back, but when he reaches up to feel what it is, there’s nothing there. There’s nobody around to his left and right. Only he takes refuge in the shadow cast by Perseverance. At his feet the anemones bristle in the breeze.

A glint from the paving catches his eye, and his attention turns to the path cutting through the center of the garden. Gold and silver mosaic fleurettes eclipse a moat of crystal clear water, and when he takes a moment to stand in the center of one, Basilios catches glittering koi cats darting through the stained glass beneath his feet. There were koi cats down by the plaza fountain, having swam there from the palace runoff, but those ones were dark, stained by the sludge of the market, and these ones shone like little diamonds in the lantern light, as pristine as the water they’re drinking in. 

Smiling to himself, he hops from one sunflower to another to dance along with the fish, narrowly avoiding a collision with Philosean quintuplets, only to bump into a Xesian noble and knock off his solstice headdress.

“Hey! Watch it you little— O-Oh, Princess Jovina, I didn’t see you there.” Basilios steps back while the noble picks up the headdress himself. He puts on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and dusts the piece off. “Sorry sweetheart, didn’t mean to yell.”

“There you are, princess.” Vittorio’s voice shoots through Basilios’ heart like an arrow, and he twirls around to see the prince standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, wearing an amused expression. 

The noble’s fake respect turns real, and he falls to one knee and bows his head. “Your Highness Vittorio, my mistake.”

His eyes narrow, though the momentary displeasure on his face is quickly replaced with a warm smile. “Yes. _Your_ mistake.” 

“Prince Vittorio—”

“Run along to the Fontana del Fondatori, princess, and I’ll follow you.”

At the prince’s insistence, Basilios steps back just far enough that Vittorio can assume he’s left and turns his attention back to the kneeled nobleman, but hangs close enough that he can see the prince lean down to the noble’s eye level. He holds the noble by the shoulders and gazes so deeply into his eyes, it could’ve been a welcoming embrace between family friends, save for the tense lines around his mouth and his eyebrows pulled taut, like he’s trying not to look mad, like his mother when she chides Basilios for misbehaving in public and doesn’t want to make a scene. Vittorio is better at it though, because his mother’s ears turn red when she’s too mad to hold it in. Just the thought has his stomach churning. If she knew where he really was, maybe more than just her ears would turn red. 

Then the prince’s facial features relax, and he’s back to being diplomatic in the face of the noble’s wide-eyed panic, just like that, his anger never having existed. Maybe he punished the noble, barring him from having the solstice _taralli dolce,_ which wouldn’t be _so_ bad, since the noble can afford one less pastry. Besides, the _granita_ served during the Starless Sky ceremony was much better. There aren’t too many punishments that can be dealt out so late in the day when the solstice is almost over... Oh! Might he have prohibited the noble from offering a prayer at the fountain? Did the prince _have_ that kind of power?

Allocer would forgive all transgressions on this holy day, but Venan and Videren, known as fickle gods in the ancient texts, scarcely sought sanctimony, and often fell to the level of lowly humans, squabbling at the feet of the sky king. In his displeasure, his judgment passes hard of heart. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Malvadrio and Giustas, who sat at Allocer’s left and right sides, with their hands pressing down on the scales of judgment, would be locked in a heated battle of forgiveness and spite, and whoever won would undoubtedly sway Allocer’s favour. Quies saw no evil and spoke in favourable tongues, while Eviglio saw all evil and spoke none of mercy. Both sat perched on Allocer’s shoulders whispering their contradictions into his ears. Who told the truth, who told lies? Only Allocer could decide. Should the sun ascend the Pillars of Solumn before the noble has had a chance to cast his prayers to each and every one of these gods, then no longer would he be entitled to Allocer’s forgiveness.

Forgiveness, of which _he_ too should be seeking. Basilios runs off to the fountain before he’s discovered.

Overlooking the entrance to the main hall, carefully carved calacatta sits adorned with marble so white, it couldn’t have been placed there by anyone _other_ than the gods, for it glows faintly, even now in the dim lamp light of the garden, and such an ethereal glow is inviting in the darkness of Venan and Videren’s bramble of limbs. Lanterns hang anchored in the jaws of Giustas and Malvadrio, the flames casting ribbons of ink over the twisted forms of Quies and Eviglio while they tell Allocer their secrets. There remains one statue above Allocer’s heads that Basilios doesn’t recognize, with a chain piercing its neck that’s caught in one of Allocer’s jaws, tears branding sorrow into its face. Those tears, whose flow Basilios cannot make sense of, cascade over Allocer to drape the entrance in silver and part for its visitors as they come near. None of the books his mother hid away in the wine cellar or under the bed had anything on that one, and the inscription above its head has been defaced with black lacquer.

Though he’s read about the fountain in a book that Silvius once borrowed for him from the library, the artist sketches could only estimate the true size, and it could not capture the sheer pressure of the _fondatori_. There are too many eyes that follow his every step, pointed, poignant, piercing through his core and freezing him to the spot, fermenting thoughts he’s had and thoughts he hasn’t had yet, feasting on a future that he cannot begin to imagine, making rot of it. A deep and slumbering breath settles in his chest. He is overcome with both a sense of dread and calm. He’s never been here before, yet here the _fondatori_ are so kind in their welcome that he’s certain this is where he’s meant to be. They _want_ him here. And if _they_ want him here, then how wrong could this be?

Basilios takes a step back and bows his head. Beneath his breath, he says his prayer: _May Venan and Videren, in their delicate battle between hunter and prey, find it in them to lay quiet at The King’s feet tonight, stoke his gentility, convince him to calmness instead of calamity. May Giustas light a path of righteousness for The King to walk, and make call to Malvadrio so he may boldly strike down the wicked who beg at The King’s hand. Quies, ever merciful, see the faithfulness of your followers and speak of their piety, and Eviglio, ever spiteful, lay your hopelessness to rest. Speak no lies, see none but the truth. Drive Xerxes towards the day, so that Allocer, born of darkness, bringer of darkness, shall return us to darkness once again._

Allocer is smiling at him. Thoughts about lying to his mother and to the prince steal away, allowing reverence to shine through the hole in the storm clouds. Forgiveness washes every ounce of guilt, and he comes out free. The scriptures speak of fate. Maybe this, too, is f—

“‘Silo!”

Registering the telltale vibrations of someone stomping in his direction, Basilios steps out of Silvius’ line of sight just as he dives in for a hug. “Wh—” The tumble Silvius takes is a violent one, down the steps into the pond off the side of the fountain. One yelp and a drunken jig is all he can manage before the inevitable, and then he’s falling in and eliciting a tsunami that ends in an incredibly soaked Basilios.

“Silvius, you idiot!” Lucia runs up and smacks him back into the water as he’s getting up again. “Nice going! And after I did his hair so nice...”

He is wet. 

The water doesn’t shimmer quite so much when it’s dripping off the ends of his hair and melting into a dark puddle around his feet. It’s summer, and it’s supposed to be warm, but the cold settles in, and a once gentle breeze becomes a winter’s gale. The _toga trabea,_ light and flowing when dry, clings to every part of him that hates being clung to, and weighs him down, drags him to his knees. His hands hide his face.

He left his mother all alone, was forced to dress as a girl, the prince flirted with some uncoordinated wench, he’s wet and cold, his clothes and hair are ruined, and to top it all off, he _knows_ everyone’s staring. Calling it a miserable night is an understatement. It’s abhorrent. It’s abominable. It’s _abysmal,_ and it’s all their fault. This is fate, alright. A cruel one. Were the gods laughing at him?

Silvius almost trips over himself running to Basilios’ side. “Ah! W-Wait, don’t—” _Cry? Sure, easy._

“You better fix this quick, Silvius, or I’ll toss you back in!” _That won’t help._

“It’s just a little bit of water, he’ll dry off in no time!” _I’m wet down to the bone._

“Get him up quick, the prince is coming!” _I’m even more uncoordinated than that woman._

“You seem to be having a terrible time, princess.”

Basilios remains hidden beneath the shroud of his arms, but even in the darkness, a gentle halo of firelight reflects off His Highness’ golden mane to light the tomb of his ire. He’s angry, but that warmth is hotter than that, engulfs the flames, stifles them. All of the prince is warm. Warm as his fingers card through Basilios’ hair, pulling it back so the water won’t stray onto his face. Warm as he parts Basilios’ arms, and they fall away without resistance. Warm as the wine in his gaze, that seeks the honey of Basilios. Vittorio’s attention is on him, _only_ him.

He nods. It’s the only thing he can bring himself to do. If he were to speak, it’d demolish the dam, and all the tears collecting at the corners of his eyes would spill over and flood not only his face, but the palace around him. He’d sink it. He’d drown all these people. Well _good._ Under water, he wouldn’t have to see everyone staring at him. Then again, that included Vittorio. Well, only Vittorio was allowed to stare, then.

“I dare say you’re more beautiful like this.” Vittorio’s hands take hold of Basilios’, bringing him to stand. They linger. “Don’t fret, princess. Let me handle it.”

Silvius is hovering. As soon as Vittorio turns to him, he stumbles back to Lucia’s side. “I didn’t mean to do it, Your Highness!”

“I know, little one,” Vittorio says. “Accidents happen. No harm, no foul.”

Lucia blushes and whispers something in Silvius’ ear, and his face turns red too. They both kneel down, drawing a chuckle from the prince.

“Rise, for all is forgiven, children.”

Lucia’s eyes are glossy. “What should we do, Your Highness?”

“I’ll be taking the princess to clean up. After you offer the _fondatori_ your penance, wait for your flighty friend and join us in the grand hall.”

“Can I come? Lucia can wait here for Marcus, and we’ll all meet up for the toast!” Silvius takes ahold of Basilios’ hand.

Vittorio shakes his head. “That’s not necessary. It’s safer for you two to stay together.” Silvius looks ready to argue, but Vittorio grips Silvius’ hand so hard he retracts it. “What a grim thing it would be to have your friend taken from you in front of the fountain. Allocer would forgive you, but I wonder if you could forgive yourself?”

Lucia huffs. “I can take care of my—” 

One look from the prince shuts her up.

Tongue caught in his throat, Silvius stammers. “I, I mean, well, okay. You’re right. I can’t leave Lucia alone.”

“Good. Now then, our farewell to the solstice will be upon us shortly, and I cannot have the princess attending the ceremony soaking wet.”

Silvius and Lucia stand aside and watch as they’re swallowed by the mouth of the palace.

Fingers caress the back of his neck, the draft from outside sneaking in to follow them. Droplets from his hair trickle down. Not alone, whispers climb the walls. The palace halls deafen their footfalls. Shadows stretch a blanket over him to dry. His gaze falls to his hand.

Vittorio’s hands are wrapped around his. Happiness — like the kind one feels when they wait all year to have their favourite dessert on their birthday, and when the moment has arrived, and the mouth is playing, the throat tightens at the deliverance of the creamy citrus candor, becomes acutely aware of the imminence of its taste, and drool drips down the side of one’s chin, until finally the tongue tastes the sun, and it is then that life earns its worth and the world rights itself; _that_ happiness envelopes his heart, squeezes it, starves his brain, kills it, slowly, slowly, and then fills it with blood, but a different kind than the one it had before. And just as when the crown of righteousness had been placed on his head at the feet of his gods, this too is right, in haste through the halls, winding around gold and marble, nothing but the flicker of fire to guide their path, hand in hand and confident, the palace is welcoming him, the palace had been _waiting_ for him.

They’re come to a room of open skylight and broad balcony. By the window there sits a curtained bed, and this is where Vittorio tells him to stay. He obeys. Basilios watches the prince disappear into a closet the size of his home.

First glance and the room is spotless. Everything shines in the lamplight. Barely a wrinkle in the sheets or a speck of dirt, and here too there is a sparkling river where the koi cats play, a glass-encased moat running along the edges of the room, making a diamond and then flowing out to the balcony, where the water falls to the fountain below. 

The second glance is cursory, revealing the cracks in the facade. Tapestry hangs over a toppled bookcase that lays among a grave of shredded books. Oh, those poor things. If Romana got him even one, let alone a number so great, that they formed a garden of gravestones, he’d never treat them that way. Behind all the mess, living among the shadows, a chasm calls to him. Only in fairytales had he heard of secrets hidden that could be revealed if the right book was pulled just so. Soft as satin and singing so sweet, the voice claws its way from out the hole. Someone was here before them.

“What has your attention, princess?” Bearing towels and extra robes, Vittorio pulls a chair and sits across from him. Would he be mad if he knew Basilios was looking at the mess? Maybe the prince didn’t know he’d have guests in his room and there was no time to clean up. Basilios shifts in his spot. His hesitancy to answer does not go unnoticed, and Vittorio’s eyes narrow as he follows Basilios’ line of sight. 

And then? Nothing. Even though he’s staring right at the claw marks left behind by the receded vines, and watching the river of black hair slither from the gashes in the wood, Vittorio doesn’t seem to see anything.

“How embarrassing. Now you’ve seen my mess.”

Basilios relaxes. “My mother would lock me out the pantry for a week if I left a mess like that.”

“Your mother punishes you? Mine never could.” He holds out a towel.

“You’ve never been punished?” Basilios leans forward for Vittorio to dry his hair. When Romana towels him off, it’s rough, like she’s seeing leftover dirt that she’d missed, and by scrubbing it, it’d come off just as well as with soap and water. She wouldn’t stop scrubbing until his skin was red and raw. Vittorio is careful, like he’s holding a ruby in a silk handkerchief, shining it until he can see himself in it, delicate, not risking a scratch.

Vittorio smirks. “Would you believe I was too much for her to handle? Nothing could stop me.”

“ _What?_ ” 

Basilios’ wide-eyed look shocks Vittorio into raucous laughter, and Basilios forgets what cold has ever felt like. “Oh! Oh lords!” He wipes a tear. “You sweet child, dear lords. Do I not strike you as the type to get in trouble?”

He knew what people who got in trouble looked like. With his messy hair and toothy grin, Silvius always got in trouble, for things he did and did not do. A hook for troubled fish, Romana called him. Vittorio’s hair is smooth, painting perfect, and his smile reserved, not a wrinkle in his face. Marcus was always running off chasing birds, and then, with his eyes up to the sky, would knock a baker into the canal, and get yelled at worse than any native Xesian. No one dared to yell at Vittorio, and though he walked with his head held high, his eyes scoured the streets, focused. Lucia had big brown eyes that expunged her of any blame, but she got into trouble all the same. Vittorio’s eyes are sharp, watchful. He doesn’t need puppy dog eyes, he’s too noble, and besides, the innocent don’t rely on tricks to prove their innocence. 

The towel slips off into his lap. “You don’t look like someone who gets in trouble.”

“Neither do you.”

His heart drops to his feet. “I… don’t get into trouble.”

“Alright, stand up. Let’s get you out of those things.”

Basilios shifts in his spot again. The Seal is supposed to stay hidden for women. That’s the only reason he could get away with not having it, because he was good at pretending to be a girl. The Sky Knights got in trouble for trying to see it at the gate. The lie only works if no one can see, but now Vittorio will see, and when he does, he’ll be angry, he’ll remove Basilios and his friends from the palace. It’ll be his fault, their fun would be ruined, and then they won’t want to be friends with him anymore.

“Are you shy, princess? You’re shaking quite a bit.”

Basilios shakes his head, gathering up the _toga trabea_ tighter against him, and standing, like he’s supposed to do, to get them off. He mumbles something about being just being cold but he’s not sure Vittorio hears it. It was supposed to stay hidden. Silvius didn’t tell him what to do if Vittorio didn’t leave him alone to change.

“It’s a shame, really.”

“...What?” His pulse is pounding in his ears. 

Vittorio clicks his tongue. “Putting you in this situation, forcing such ugly lies to come from such pretty lips, _oh,_ your friends really are _so_ cruel.” He pulls Basilios to stand between his legs. 

His clothes weren’t even off yet, so how could he...? “Lies? That’s… not true.”

“There’s a girl amongst you, yet they chose you to play the part, like they do every time.” Does he…? His voice is far away. It echoes, the room is so big, so empty, but the voice is muffled as it passes through his chest, strikes his heart once, twice, three times for good measure, a mallet on a drum. Except his heart is not a drum, it’s too flimsy, it falls apart. Something stings.

“Well, I… I don’t know.”

“No one is as smart as you, or as beautiful as you, or as kind as you, whatever it is so they can rope you into their _trouble._ ” There’s only one layer left. One layer closer to the truth. The _toga trabea_ that meant so much to his uncle is on the floor. His eyes are stinging.

“No, it’s...”

“Perhaps there is a joke you’re missing. Or perhaps you _are_ the joke.” Bare, there’s nowhere to hide. He’s almost glad his eyes are full of tears. The image of Vittorio wavers. He cannot see the disappointment.

“They wouldn’t... ”

“They ask you to come along, maybe even _beg,_ make like they can’t enjoy themselves without your company. They make you humiliate yourself to get them through the gates and into the palace, and then they leave you all alone. Well, you’ve served your purpose. They’ve lost their reason to stay.” As much as he wishes not to see Vittorio, he’d been wishing for Vittorio to see him. The tears have blinded him, yet those eyes stay fixed on him, their molten gaze settling dread in his core.

“I suppose there _is_ something funny about a commoner thinking he is friends with nobles.” Vittorio scoffs. “They were looking for a pet, and in you sauntered. You get to live your fantasy, and they found their _bitch_ in you.”

“N-No… that’s...”

“You’re no princess.” _He knew._

“You’re not even a little bit noble.” _He knew the whole time._

“I gave you a chance to come clean, but you still lied to me.” _What am I supposed to do?_

“I’m disappointed.” 

_No, please._

Roaming hands brand the shape of the Seal into his chest. A cross, in its center an eye, the eye of their prince of darkness. Identical to the one on Vittorio. “I know who you are.” Those roaming hands don’t stop to sign a prayer. They grasp his throat. Only one was necessary to fit, but Vittorio uses both. “I know _what_ you are.” He squeezes. “What runs through you.” The tears are overwhelming. “But _you?_ ” The room spins. “You _poor_ thing. You don’t even know what’s been stolen from you.”

Their eyes capture each other. In that moment the veil parts, and he sees that Vittorio is crying, sharing in his tears. “Such a painful thing it is, to not know oneself.”

Basilios chokes out a sob.

Vittorio knew, there was no use in hiding. He knew from the beginning and he still let them in, because he is a prince, and princes are kind and noble and honourable and they take pity on stupid children who don’t belong, but that’s all it is, it’s all it’ll ever be, _pity._ He didn’t have to, but he did, because that’s what it means to be a prince. He hopes Vittorio can understand the apologies spilling from his mouth.

“Shh, do not cry, little one.”

He wraps Basilios in an embrace, and they stand there, silent, for a moment. It feels longer than a moment, though it’s not long enough. If he could comprehend the length of eternity, then he’d want to spend that long in these arms. Any shorter than that and the despair of knowing how little he means to anyone else would take whatever is left of his broken heart, and like a toothless mongrel, drink the meager backwash of blood, spit it back down his throat, where the tendrils would slither in to find the hole and fill it, and he’d choke, and keep choking, not to die, because that would be merciful, but to live. It’d be the only thing keeping him alive, to suffer a life he no longer wants. He’d be drained of the blood he wants, the blood that didn’t belong to him, that filled him with happiness. He wants that happiness again. He wants Vittorio to give him that happiness.

Vittorio releases him. He wipes his own eyes, then dresses Basilios in a new robe. It’s red, like his other one, but it is simpler and without decoration, only lined with silver thread. Vittorio redoes his hair in a braid that wraps around the side of his head, and adorns it with a silver crescent sun. Leading him to a full length mirror, Vittorio gasps, and smiles.

It’s not like his mother’s, but... “It’s beautiful.”

Vittorio kneels, and takes Basilios’ hands.

“Tell me your name.”

“It’s… Basilios.”

“Basilios, my darling, my love, allow me to give back what they took.”


	4. Pati Tenebras

**Part I — XERXES.**

* * *

The dark is where the great king reigns. Darkness is nothing, darkness is natural, darkness is pure. If all else ceases to exist, without matter to hold one back, return to the darkness. Before children learn to read or write, they know this: run to the shadows, keep away from the light. But that darkness haunting Vittorio’s room, that wasn’t nothing, that wasn’t natural, that wasn’t pure. That darkness haunting Vittorio’s room watched, waited, wanted, rotted the wood away, stalked along the marble, sniffed at the stench of the light and, repelled, found a hidden path in the shadows. Whatever was in Vittorio’s room made an advantage of the shadows, and as the prince fixed his face, Basilios found himself clinging to Vittorio more and more.

Now they’ve left, and Basilios watches the darkness approach Vittorio but never touch. It didn’t touch the light either, having found it repugnant. That light paints Vittorio’s hair luminescent. Farther from her clutches they stray, farther from the dread, for they’ve left behind the burden of darkness to dance through the halls on air, and her shadowy tendrils cannot reach them here in the firelight of their rapture. Not a single star peers at them in the night sky, neither greets them from the windows stretching miles above, none but the ones in their eyes locked together. Hand-in-hand they part the fabric of the palace until there’s nothing left in this reality except for them. Matter does not exist in this new empty world of theirs. They’re so light they might as well float away into the clouds, up to the land of the gods, where they can bow and receive their blessings and be happy.

Far away, the beast hangs, while here he stays safe with the light that opened his eyes and would continue to do so. Moments ago he did not know who he was. It was Vittorio who grazed a gracious hand over his heart and cleared away the blinds, and ever gentle did he lay the truth onto the table of Basilios’ ribcage. Who is he? What is he? He is the prince’s _darling,_ the prince’s _love._ A gift with no beginning and no end, Vittorio promised him. He would come to know everything about himself, and in knowing about himself, he would know the prince too. He would know what was stolen from him! How right Vittorio was! How sad it was to not know he’d been robbed! All shall be bestowed over him again _in due time,_ Vittorio _promised_ him. Again and again, before they escaped the confines of the room, he promised, marking it with a kiss upon his hand and the placement of a gold band around his wrist, the very same one Vittorio has a hold on, grounding him in an otherwise weightless daydream which he cannot take his eyes off nor wishes to wake from. 

Crowning his wrist is the head of a snake attempting to eat its own tail, but that tail is the head of a lion with its jaws snapped shut on the snake’s neck, breaking it. Something that even the priests didn’t know the meaning of, though he claimed that he knew and would tell Basilios later. Well, Basilios is quite clever, and he’s already figured it out. The lion is Allocer, and the snake is all of Xerxes’ enemies. He’ll tell His Highness after the final prayer to impress him. He’ll be the _only_ one.

“Ugh.” Vittorio’s face contorts. “These hallways are crowded.”

That must mean they’re close to the grand hall, but, oh Venan, why do their final private moments have to be ruined? Figures, braided and knotty, metamorphose into his daydream, squeezing themselves into every corner of his periphery. Their stringy bodies are adorned with the hair of the hauntress of Vittorio’s room. He can avoid the woman’s claws if he keeps hold of Vittorio. There isn’t much tighter he can hold though.

“Oh, Your Highness!” A servant almost collides with the prince in her hurry and drops her platter. Basilios laments the miniature cakes littering the ground in the aftermath. Their chocolate frosting is ruined, scraped all around their feet, and the cakes are flattened, the air squeezed out of them. They’ve fallen prey to the darkness now. The nobles around them acknowledge her with little more than a scoff and disgust.

Vittorio’s response is airy. “ _Oh_ Elissia, clumsy as always. Are those cakes too much for you?” Is this a friend of his? All his previous distaste is replaced with humour.

“N-No Your Highness!” Her tunic scrapes the ground when she bows, and Basilios watches her eyes follow the prince’s hand and stop on its resting place in Basilios’ grasp. Her hands play with her cream cloth. “I can handle a few cakes.” She can’t take her eyes off them, even as she kneels down to pick the cakes up, and she keeps dropping them again. Her hair is coming apart, her tunic is coming apart; the poor woman is all over the place, kinda like Aunt Marina after she fights with Balbus and, realizing her nephew and daughter had been there to see and hear it all, tries to smooth over the situation and make it seem like whatever just happened didn’t just happen while silently pleading with the children to pretend they didn’t see anything.

For Aunt Marina, he’d always pretend. For Elissia? The travesty of the cakes on the ground cannot be ignored, but he can pretend he didn’t see _her_ drop them. Basilios mirrors her bow and greets her with a quiet, “Hello.” 

She squeaks, shooting straight up. “H-Hello!” Her eyes still haven’t left that band. “Have you made a new friend, Your Highness?”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Her brain stutters as it’s forced to split its attention on staring and responding. The silence is extended, and when Vittorio stops finding it entertaining, he gives her a cool smile and an intent nod. Realizing she’s being dismissed, Elissia blushes. “Oh! Right! None of my business, silly me! See you in the grand hall, Your Highness!” She’s scurrying off to join a gaggle of gigging servants. 

Maybe she wants to be _more_ than friends with the prince, but, “She’s really nice.” Though she’s nothing like the sleek and sculptured noblewoman of the garden that Vittorio got along with so well, and Vittorio didn’t laugh with the servant the way he did with the lady. Basilios looks up and catches Vittorio rolling his eyes. _Did I say something wrong?_ “...Um, Your Highness?”

Vittorio sighs. “She’s more charming when I’m not in a hurry. Let us get on with it, lest we have anymore impromptu collisions.”

He collides with someone as they round a pillar.

“Oh, blind Videren’s eyes!”

A collection of gasps can be heard from those nearby. Their conversations cease, eyes fixated on the prince and the gentleman sprawled on the floor. Vittorio adjusts himself while Sir Round Glasses collects all his rolled up paper. Basilios makes to help him, but Vittorio holds him firmly by his side.

“Dear me! Oh my stars, it’s the first prince!” He scrambles to his feet. “Good evening, Your Highness, and to your companion as well.” He’s breathless, blueprints overflowing from his arms, his satchels, all over the floor. 

Vittorio’s smile is strained. A darkness collects behind his eyes that disappears when Basilios blinks. “My beloved Otho, what are you doing out of your study?” _Beloved?_ This _guy?_ He looks even _less_ like the woman from the garden.

“Well, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, Your Highness! You see, the Grande Leone constellation, which was placed in our night sky after Xerxes gave itself to Allocer to conquer the western clouds, announcing our inevitable victory, as you would know Your Highness, since it was you who closed the distance between us and the dark king, oh — of darkness, to darkness once again,” he briefly bows his head, then continues, “should be seen clearest on this night, as it is the fortieth day since the eve of the war, and by my and the Iustificati Illud’s calculations, the constellation should have in fact _shifted_ so that the Leone will have broken its jaw in a mighty roar to Aeternius!” 

The nobles begin to whisper.

Stars appearing after a war and moving on their own — it would be more fun to listen to if his wrist wasn’t hurting so much. Vittorio’s knuckles are white.

Vittorio twirls a piece of hair around his finger. “Is it normal for stars to shift like that?”

“Not usually, no! However, this is the _divine_ we are speaking of, Your Highness. Anything is possible! If they decided the day after tomorrow to fell Xerxes, then we would just have to fall!”

“Isn’t that something that concerns His Highness, my father?” 

“Hm,” he starts, scratching his head. “I’m not sure yet what it could mean. Normally we would consult with the highest order of priests, but they have been fasting in preparation for tonight’s ceremony, and will only be leaving their solitary confinement tonight to bless the departure.”

“You’ve already piqued my interest, so you’re going to have to tell me what they say later.”

“Oh!” He drops his blueprints. “W-W-Well I, I mean—” Fumbling with them, he’s as red as a tomato.

Just as he’s collected himself, Vittorio adjusts the scholar’s headdress, and his arms go limp again, and then _again_ when Vittorio helps him retrieve the first, laughing. Noticing a piece had come off his headdress, Basilios picks it up to admire. It’s a crescent sun, gold paint chipped in some places to reveal the cast iron underneath. Were all the ornaments on the scholar’s headdress made of cast iron? That must be heavy. 

“Ah, Your Highness’ companion is quite the observant one.” The man leans down to take the crescent from Basilios. His teeth are crooked but his smile is warm, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I can see it in your eyes, little crow. You’ve got a big brain. Maybe I’ll be seeing you in my study from now on?” A big brain? Huh! That makes sense. A big brain must be how the scholar carries the headdress.

Basilios giggles and puffs out his chest. “My friends say I’m the smartest.” The whispers are seeded.

“You are very bright, my love, everyone knows that. Now then, we’ll be goi—”

“I’m sure they’re right! You know, when I was your age, I was the smartest in my group of friends too. Spent everyday reading instead of running around, and when I was done all the books on my shelf, I found a bookstore to continue the journey!” 

The whispering blooms. Basilios turns to see the nobles sneering. Did Otho tell a joke? He’s not sure what’s so funny.

“Otho, that’s sweet, but the time—” 

“I had big dreams of studying in the palace. They all laughed at me, but by the grace of Giustas, look at me now! I’ve found a group of like-minded individuals to share my passion with! Believe me, it’s a wonderful thing to start speaking and know that those around you understand what you’re saying!”

_“How rude.”_

“Really, we must get going—”

_“The prince is being too kind to him.”_

“Have you ever wondered what hides in the libraries of the palace? Well, let me tell you, it’s—”

_“Where I come from, that earns you a beheading.”_

“ _Otho,_ shut your insolent mouth or I will do it myself,” Vittorio hisses.

The darkness clamps down on Otho’s mouth, drawing a tear from his eye and blood from his lip. He nods, not daring to breathe another word, and stares at his feet. Basilios has never seen a man shake so hard. Aw, his story was just getting interesting, too.

Vittorio smiles sweetly at him, though Otho won’t look him in the eye. “Now then, remove yourself from my presence.”

Otho does as he’s told and steps off to the side.

The whispering has stopped, and they shoulder past the scholar. Basilios gives the man a sympathetic look before he’s tugged away. It’s not until they’ve crossed a raised pathway through the upper level of the courtyard that Vittorio notices Basilios hasn’t said anything, hasn’t looked at him, and has hung behind. Without slowing down, he speaks up, words holding cautious affection. “My love, what is it that troubles you?”

Basilios shrugs. “I wanted him to finish his story.”

“I told you earlier that _I_ would be telling you all the things you need to know.” It sounds like he’s saying, _‘Is that all?’_

Basilios pouts. “I guess so.”

He thinks he sees another flash of the darkness in Vittorio’s eyes, the crimson sun becoming congealed blood and slithering like sludge from the precipice of his brow ridge, from behind which the shadow’s yellowed eyes peer from the wounds, but one blink and it’s gone. It’s supposed to hate the light, it’s supposed to hate _Vittorio._ It shouldn’t be able to touch Vittorio, right? Should he say something? Vittorio hasn’t noticed. He didn’t notice her in his bedroom either. She jumped from noble to noble earlier, how could he miss all _that?_ Or maybe he _did_ notice. Maybe that’s why he wanted to get away from the maid, and from the scholar. Maybe the prince knew all this time and he didn’t want to scare Basilios, because princes are supposed to be courageous and strong, they’re not supposed to be afraid of anything, but he’s afraid of that darkness too. He was pretending too, just like Basilios does with aunt Marina.

“It’s okay, Your Highness.” He plays with his toga. “I’m not upset.”

 _I liked Otho,_ he wants to say. _He was nice too._ Vittorio doesn’t seem to have time for nice people tonight, even though they’re his friends. Why didn’t he warn them about the shadows? They could’ve run away.

“I suppose I cannot blame you for being _impatient._ I too was once in your position, hungry to know everything that had been kept hidden from me. It will come to you in time, my love. You will know it all, more than the scholars and the high priests. That I promise you, _again._ ”

“I’m not impatient,” he says, puffing out his cheeks. _I just wanted to talk to your friends._

“Oh, really? Look at how quickly you latched onto someone who was willing to tell you a story.” Vittorio shakes his head. “You’ve got the attention span of a gnat.”

“Is that the pot calling the kettle black?” A portly man in a trailing red toga laughs. Is something stuck in his throat? He’s snoring by the time he crosses over to them.

“Seneca.” The name tastes bitter in Vittorio’s mouth.

“Never mind him, young one. When His Highness was about your age, not a one could make him sit down and listen. A terror, he was! Yes sir!” He laughs again. Basilios hides his smile behind his hand.

“Chancellor, do you have an actual reason for interrupting me?”

The man’s eyes bug out. “Do I ever! Your Highness, please deal with your father—”

“No.”

The chancellor sputters. “What?! Your Highness, _please!_ Against all advice, he has left his chambers—”

“As we knew he would. The stubborn fool refuses to listen to anyone.”

“You’re the only one who has any sway with him—” He grabs onto Vittorio’s arm.

Vittorio wrenches his arm away. “I’d rather put a Lyperian earwig into my ear.”

“He’s sick, yet he’s already had some of the _wine—_ ”

“And how is that my problem?”

“Yes, Chancellor, how is that my son’s problem?”

“Eek! Your Highness!” Seneca falls to his knees, pressing his head to the floor. The nobles in the area take a knee and then rise.

“How _fortunate_ ,” Vittorio says, rolling his eyes. “If there was _anything_ I so desperately needed tonight...” Basilios breathes in relief when he doesn’t see any darkness in Vittorio’s eyes, or anywhere near the chancellor, despite their aggravation. But what of His Highness?

Dressed in toe-rings and anklets and sandals with straps too numerous to count, coated in diamonds shaped like crescents and crescents shaped like stars, that grab hold of the lamplight to dance with it in a mournful cabaret, lamenting its stealing from the poor and adornment for the rich, laying it down to rest in the cut of a thousand or more gems, spread thin, dizzying in its altitude, the king stands hunched in front of him. More Amestrian gold than Vittorio is wearing, more than probably the whole nation of Amestris could produce, sits atop his calves, his hands, hangs from his ears and crowns his head; all of him glows an envious gold, none so breathtaking as that of his mane, delicate and deliberate in its curling and cascade down his fur-laden shoulders. If Vittorio were the sun, a passionate flame torturing the hauntress into retreat, then His Highness is the king throned atop that sun, vanquishing the spirit into nothingness, rebirthing from it a doughy cherub to herald the purification of the darkness, and to peace the shadows will return again.

Yet as radiant as His Highness is, the light sucks the warmth from the surroundings, stiffens time into terror, turns all things backwards and ages them in cold blood. At the moment his eyes meet Basilios, at the moment the fire touches upon his head, at the moment the life is driven from his veins, he is swallowed whole by the living crimson, frozen in this moment and overcome by desire, not to thrive, but to die. If he could cry, he would, but those too would freeze before they ever made it down his cheeks. This man, with his gaunt face and sallow gaze, with a smile cracked and thin and words worn to the bone, with a curious look from eyes so red they must have been freshly bled, he has thrust upon Basilios a millennia of despair. How can one person be so _sad?_

The king kneels, placing a shaking hand on Basilios’ shoulder. “I miss when people didn’t feel the need to bow when I walked into a room.”

A hand that belongs to neither of them slaps his away. “That is part of being a king.” A woman, tall and proud, stands between them, reeling him back to her side. She’s wearing a necklace with an emblem he’s never seen before, and a silk _stola_ so weighted with gold, Basilios worries the fabric will tear. Silk is not meant to hold such grievances. It’s light, designed for the wealthy who do the opposite of working. The _limbus_ beneath did little to add strength. No, all of that came from her. If looks could kill, then both the king and the first prince would be burned at the stake, for he’s never seen someone less impressed with anything than she is with these two. “When the king enters the room, you must bow. Are you not of Xerxes or its allies?”

Seneca fans himself. “Your Highness, please soften your heart. She is but a child.” 

Basilios’ heart jumps. Oh, right. These nobles believe him to be a girl, but Vittorio got angry when Basilios lied to him. Would he tell his parents the truth now? Would that get him in trouble?

“I am aware.” Her eyes point daggers at Vittorio’s throat. 

“Where is the problem, then?”

“What is she doing with the _prince?_ ”

Basilios stares at the floor.

Vittorio hand waves away her concerns. “Must you condemn me, mother?” _That’s_ his mother? How did he _ever_ get away with _anything_ around a woman like that? She looked like she’d do way worse than lock him out of the pantry for a week. “The poor Cyperan princess had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction in the garden, and I took her to get redressed.”

“She’s a _Cyperan?_ ” The king’s jaw hangs. He rectifies it and coughs into his hand. “Vittorio,” he begins, checking his surroundings, and then leans in to whisper, “isn’t she a little too _light_ to be a Cyperan?” The man is a terrible whisperer, and Basilios hears every word.

Vittorio gasps and pulls away. “Your Highness, for shame! For a man at your station to remark upon a noble’s appearance, how improper!”

Seneca looks like his heart’s about to stop. He’s wheezing and gasping and squeezing some sort of sound out of his throat that Basilios isn’t sure is human. “Venan appraise me! What did you just say?”

The woman is unmoved. “Let’s hope no one _else_ heard you.” Basilios hears her mutter, “You buffoon” under her breath.

“Well _I_ for one am glad you’ve made a friend.” Basilios doesn’t realize the king is patting him on the head until his sleeve tickles Basilios’ nose. He catches a taut, wiry wrist from under the fabric, before it retreats back to his side. “My most gracious thanks for putting up with him.”

Basilios grins. “His Highness is a lot of fun, so it’s no problem.”

“Aw, did you hear that, mother?” Vittorio coos. “The princess thinks I’m _fun._ ” 

A tone chimes from inside the grand hall, the long held note of a dire flute. The last of the crowd lingering outside clamour in, and as he watches them, the king adjusts his robe so that the Seal of the Gods is visible. “It’s starting. Well, I do hope the princess enjoys our foreign ceremony.”

Basilios bows. “Thank you, Your Highness. And um, Happy Solstice!”

Archelaus smiles back. Oh, was that a tear in his eye? At a different angle, it’s gone. Maybe Basilios was just imagining it, though the king is standing a little taller when he christens the hall, and as they enter together, he leaves his wife, son, and the chancellor to climb the winding staircase and stands with the assimilation of high priests at the altar. Giving him no time to protest, the queen snatches Vittorio’s hand, and with Seneca they go to stand at the front of the crowd at the edge of a glass fountain, where six others who look like mirror copies of Vittorio are waiting. Seneca hangs by the queen with his arms clasped in front of him in prayer, and in mere moments, everyone is mimicking this action.

The head priest takes a step forward, and holds his hands out. “Let us pray.”

Basilios is alone for no longer than the blink of an eye when he is attacked with hugs and kisses. They’re shushed, but that matters not to Silvius and Lucia, who look like they’d aged twenty years from the worry in the time since they last met.

“Where have you been?”

“Our scripture, so mercifully handed to us by the righteousness and the fury of our lord, indelible to the passage of time and all the mysteries of our being, sacred through calamity, divine by consecration under the might of the dark king Allocer, reads—”

“The prince’s friends kept stopping us,” he says. “Huh? Where’s Marcus?”

Silvius is giddy, barely containing the smile on his face. “He did it.”

“‘Born of darkness.’ The first face delivers the birth of our saving inscription, that He is ‘born of darkness.’ Before light, there was dark. Before life, there was rest. Before pain, there was peace. Before suffering, there was tranquility. Before death, there was nothing. Allocer shares this agony with us, this curse that we call life. He too was _born,_ but! He was born _of darkness,_ unlike us, unlike the kings before him, he comes from the time before life, before pain, before suffering, before death. He comes before all, with a _prophecy._ ”

“Did… what?”

Lucia smacks a hand over Silvius’ mouth before he can yell it out, and he deflates. They’re shushed again.

“‘Bringer of darkness.’ It is the second face which delivers the most important prophecy, He is our ‘bringer of darkness.’ Allocer not only comes from all before existence, He joins us in this existence, intent to bring that of _before_ to that of _after._ He brings the gift of _nothing_ to us. And finally,—”

When she removes it, he delivers the news, quietly. “Marcus caught a nightingquail, and the priests made a big deal about it and told him he had to come up with them to perform the ritual, or something.”

“The third face delivers the final and most important promise of all, that He will ‘return us to darkness once again.’ What comes after the life, the death, the pain and the suffering? It is darkness! It is rest, it is peace, it is tranquility, it is nothing!”

Basilios’s eyes widen. “Really? So he gets to be up there with the high priests, and the bishops, and the _king?_ ”

The two of them nod excitedly. Silvius gestures up at the altar, where Marcus and the captured nightingquail squirming in his arms stand as stiff as a board next to the head priest. “He’s gonna get to bless the rest of us.” Yet again, they are shushed.

“That is the cruelty and the kindness of the summer solstice! On this day, we suffer the longest hours, the longest away from our dark king’s cool embrace! It is in cruelty that we are forced away from Him to bask in the scorch of the crescent sun! But this cruelty is kindness! We endure the longest day so that when He comes bearing the longest night, we understand and we appreciate and we are prepared!”

“What does _that_ mean?” Basilios asks.

Lucia shrugs. “I dunno, we didn’t get to ask. They just took him away.”

“And so we bid farewell to this wretched day! Fall to our knees in prayer, hoping for the grace of our King to wash over us, forgive us for partaking in this sin called living! Now the chosen one will come forward, bearing His will! As the body becomes blood, as blood becomes wine, the spirit of Allocer will descend into this vessel and become for us a fountain of everlasting darkness!”

The head priest motions to Marcus, and he’s marched by two others towards the altar. They place the nightingquail down on the table, and secure it using twine. Try as it might, it can only make distressed quacks in its futile struggle. There’s no escape. Then, the king places a ceremonial bronze knife in Marcus’ hand.

“Hey, that looks weird.” Silvius blanches.

Lucia’s hold on Silvius tightens “What’re they doing? Silvius, why would they give him a knife?”

“To cut it loose, maybe?”

“Now then, bear witness to the bloodletting, so that we may but for a night taste the light of our King’s darkness, and drink in his gift!”

Basilios plays with his robe. “They wouldn’t have tied it down if they were just gonna free it. I think they’re—”

“No way.” Silvius squeezes Basilios’ arm. “They’re not gonna kill a bird that only comes out once a year, that’s... that’s wasteful. They’d have none left eventually, right?”

Marcus is staring at the nightingquail, lost. Mumbled prayer rises above the crowd, repeating Allocer’s inscription over and over until the words lose their shape and meaning and transform into a suggestion, a push, a shove, a death sentence, an execution. He looks left and right, up at the priests, searching for guidance or relinquishment or both, but they’re on their knees with their eyes squeezed shut, taken over by the persuasion of their king.

“They’re gonna make him do it.”

“But why? He already caught it, isn’t that enough?”

Lucia’s on the verge of tears. “Silvius, _do_ something.”

The king stands beside Marcus and guides his reluctant hand to the bird. He’s shaking his head, struggling just as hard as the nightingquail. From here they can hear his begging and crying for someone else to do it. They’re the only ones.

“Close your eyes, Marcus,” Basilios pleads. The words stumble on their way out over the lump in his throat. He’s not sure if Marcus can hear him. Maybe Venan can. _Venan, guide Marcus’ path. Please make someone else do it._

“I wish Videren would blind me right this second,” Lucia cries out. She hides her face in Silvius’ shoulder and sobs.

The moment the blade touches the nightingquail, Basilios turns his face and covers his eyes with his hands. A long wail is ripped out from Marcus’ throat, and when he looks up again, he sees the fountain has run red. The head priest holds the blade like it’s a delicate rose, cleans it with a dark cloth, and places it in His Highness’ hands, who holds the blade up to anoint the black sky overhead with the cross of the Seal, and says aloud, ringing final, “Born of darkness, bringer of darkness, return us to darkness once again. Now drink, all you faithful. Be blessed by the blood of our dark king, and be cleansed of the light.”

Servants hand out gold chalices for the congregation to receive their fill. Basilios catches sight of Miss Pashmina draped in her beautiful scarf. So she made it after all. She takes a careful sip and then downs the rest of it in one gulp, managing to splash some on her robe. But wait, isn’t that blood that she’s drinking? It won’t come out! Oh, _everyone_ is drinking like they’ve just come out of the desert. They’re wasting an awful lot. How can so much come from one little bird?

When it comes to his turn, he gingerly sinks his cup in the fountain and watches the red liquid paint the inside. Silvius sniffs at it when he’s gotten his fill, then curiosity gets the better of him, and he takes a sip. “Huh? It’s wine?”

Lucia dips her own chalice in and swirls it around. “I don’t get it, it looks like wine, and smells like wine.” She takes a sip. “And it tastes like wine!”

“Wasn’t it supposed to be blood?” Basilios asks, not having taken a drink yet.

“Did you hear what the head priest said, my love?” Vittorio saunters up to them, petting Basilios’ head. “‘As the body becomes blood, and the blood becomes—’”

“Wine!” Silvius blurts out. “Of course it’s wine, no one would drink _blood._ ”

Vittorio clicks his tongue. “ _Yes,_ that is what I was going to say. Our dark king works in mysterious ways. He can turn a lowly bird’s blood into _delicious_ wine. Oh, darling? Why haven’t you had any?”

Basilios watches shadows play in the crimson. “I don’t know if I… want to.”

“Oh! Uh, well,” Silvius interjects. “The _princess_ has never had any before.”

“Is _that_ so?” Vittorio hums. He wraps his fingers around Basilios’ hand, squeezing the chalice, and lifts it to his mouth. His words come out in a purr. “It’s a good time to start.”

“Look! Marcus is coming down!” Lucia sets her cup down on the side and goes to him.

“Wait, Lucia!”

She bounces back with Marcus in tow. Taking one look at the lot of them, he decides he’s not in the mood for fun and games, and wraps his arms around Basilios in a loose hug. Basilios lets him. 

“Your friend seems a little upset. Allow me to fetch him a chalice.” The prince returns with a cup that Marcus makes no effort to resist being handed, and he stares at it without saying anything. Vittorio, concerned, cups his cheeks, and forces him to look directly into the prince’s eyes. “ _Drink,_ dear. Our dark king’s essence will wash all your troubles away. You will forget your first kill, I promise.”

Marcus does it without any more insistence.

“Now then, what are you waiting for, princess? Don’t you want to experience what everyone else has undoubtedly started to?”

“Well, I…” 

Other kids get to have wine. _“You’re not other kids,”_ Romana’s voice in his head replies. He’s the only one he knows who doesn’t, because his mother forbids it, because it’s bad and changes a person fundamentally, and that’s why Balbus is so angry all the time. No one here is angry like Balbus, though. They’re smiling and laughing and dancing to the music that the musicians have begun playing.  Even Marcus is back to his bubbly self, and he’s swaying with Lucia and Silvius, who are giggling about the taste of the music. The wine is from the nightingquail and had been blessed by the priests, so it _must_ be a good thing. The priests wouldn’t do something bad to these people. This isn’t like when Balbus drinks. His mother won’t have to know.

He takes a sip. It’s bitter, and he makes a face, but as it slides down the back of his throat, it warms him. The after-flavour is sharp and tastes a little like a sun-dried tomato after it’s been pickled in beet juice. This is what’s making everyone so happy? His uncle drinks this with breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but _why?_ Grapefruit juice is better, and the peels can be used to make marmalade. What can a dead nightingquail be used for other than this? It’s not _bad_ though, and that’s what drives him to finish the rest of it. There, he’d done it once and wouldn’t have to do it again. It’s just for the solstice.

“Does it suit your tastes?”

He wants to be honest. “It’s okay, I guess.”

Vittorio smiles. “Soon you will be _more_ than okay. Until then, dance with me, my love.”

He’s not one for dancing. Daria cries about it whenever her parents tell her to dance with him, and his mother has to stifle her laughter when she offers Basilios to take the lead. No girl has ever said yes to him for any festival dance. His Highness has definitely had better partners than he, who have long legs to match his, slender and practiced, fitting perfectly entwined with him, following the long strides, deliberate steps, and elegant rose twirls without missing a beat. He’s had partners that are strong and confident and dressed in sharp angles and glittering glass, who don’t need to be told where their hands should go, that can nestle their face against his shoulder and feel the music through his chest. Basilios stumbles on his traitorous feet, that can’t be trusted to carry him in confidence, whose only purpose are stepping on His Highness’. Embarrassed and ashamed, his eyes burn. If they’re looking, they will know how unfit he is. Yet the prince, ever noble, slows down when he needs it, finds a languid dip in the flutes where he can hook Basilios back into him to allow for a smooth transition between movements. With the prince’s arm around his waist, he’s lifted off the ground and twirled. 

Once, he loses his bearing. 

Twice, the colours blend.

Three times, the hauntress stands at the altar.

Basilios gasps and hides his face against the prince. The ritual was over, and Allocer’s spirit had filled the room, this place had become holy, hostile to _her_ kind. So what was she doing here, in a congregated lawfulness, in a chapel of forgiveness, under a blessed steeple housing the king and the prince, whose light made her sick and should repel her back to the chasm she’d crawled from? Had someone brought her in? Was she ever apart from this place?

He peers at the altar again and is relieved to see Sir Six Toes sharing a drinking with Sir Mushroom Cap over the balcony. They’re laughing at something. Their laughs are slow, mouths gaping. Whatever sounds they make don’t come as sounds but as objects, squares and circles and triangles. But they’re laughing, he _knows_ they are laughing. People do not produce _shapes_ when they laugh!

“You’re so endearing,” Vittorio chuckles. “With your eyes blown wide, _oh,_ it’s marvellous. I’ve never been more excited to see gold rot.”

“Wh...at?” His voice is coming from the statue of Venan and tastes like marmalade.

Vittorio’s laugh is deep and strikes his ears with such force, he is certain he will be sent flying from this life and trapped in the next. A quality unlike anything he’s ever heard before takes the prince captive. His eyes glow especially bright. Basilios can’t see anything but those eyes. “Oh _yes,_ my love. As the body becomes _blood,_ and the blood becomes _wine,_ the spirit of Allocer will descend into this _vessel,_ ”

Why is Vittorio repeating what the head priest said? It’s so loud. His head hurts.

“And he will make you _his._ ”

“Huh? W-Wait, that’s not ri...ght.” Venan’s jaw crumbles and falls into the fountain. That’s no good, how will he talk now?

Every time the prince twirls him, a piece of Venan decays. Doesn’t anyone else see it? He tries to call out to the sky knights to do something about it. Oh right, he lost his jaw, he cannot speak without it. And there goes his tongue. The dancers become little more than shapes. _He_ is little more than shapes. He knows nothing about himself, all that’s been stolen from him. So what is it he holds onto? Where are his limbs? Certainly it’s not _these_ ones, these puny things, so thin, so pale, so _weak._ Those don’t belong to him, his body is over there, breaking apart, filling their chalices, contaminating the elixir.

“You _must_ be feeling it _now,_ darling. What is it you see?”

Basilios shudders. Every sip they take is a drop he drains. Someone’s watching him.

“What is it you _hear?_ ”

The pyramids are shrill and shatter his skull. He cannot hear the approach.

“What is it you _taste?_ ”

Red, _red!_ Blood and wine and anger and hatred! It’s choking him.

She rises from the fountain to tower above the crowd. Rotten wine washes from her in droplets, and the beads split apart when they hit the floor. Miss Pashmina fills another cup. Petrified, Basilios cannot take his eyes off her, and clings to Vittorio. His light will protect, his light will save. His burning sun and thankless stars, his fiery love and emblazoned soul, his love and his darling _must_ send her away, but nothing he says gets through to the prince. Why won’t he _listen?_ Why won’t he _look?_

Vittorio leans down to whisper in Basilios’ ear, “Be not afraid.” His hands slide to sink his claws into Basilios’ back and sides. But wait, the prince did not have claws! 

Basilios pulls back to see that there is no one holding him at all. Where the prince had torn him open, black oil bleeds into the tile. Leathery, jaundiced talons fall apart from the hand they feed off, shift and crack and snap and splice, split apart, snaking their way through the crowd and peeling back the floor, sinking into the infested soil, where squirming maggots begin to rise. What is left of the crowd steps in the rotting sludge and comes away with oozing ulcers where the maggots have penetrated, the draining pus feeding the soil to give birth to more of the white buds. They turn their attention on the hair spilling from his wounds, and like rats to a corpse beginning the hunt, they slither and slide, onwards to the feast.

No! No no no no no! What is this? Why is this happening? Venan? Videren? _Allocer!_ No one answers his praying. No one helps his begging. No one hears his screaming. There is no one to answer. There is no one to help. There is no one to hear. How can they, when they are all vague shapes in the distance? These shapes are no one, _he_ is no one. There is only one defined concept here, and that is the fountain in which she stands, faceless, eyeless, speechless. Her voice is saccharine like poison and vile like false hope, as she reaches out to him. _Basilios._

He tries to run but feet that are not his lack the speed. He tries to fight but hands that are not his lack the strength. He tries to scream but a voice that is not his calls from the darkness. _We lay where you will run. We see where you will hide. We are watching you._ Where are they coming from?

All movement ceases. The shapes, which are no longer shapes, but are now dogs, gnarled and broken, turn to stare at him, and at that moment, he begins to weep, for every one of them has sprouted a bulging, glassy eye in every place that one should not have eyes. He shouldn’t count them, and he hasn’t, yet he knows all at once how many there are, and that is a number he never wants to conceive of again. Why are they here?

In front of him stretches the darkness, holding open its crooked maw in an act of mockery. His vision peels. Whether he crawls to it and is swallowed by the beast, or he heeds the hauntress and bows to her whim, he has lost the last body he could ever have, a body that isn’t even his. Who is wearing his real body? Shaking, he holds out hands that are eons away from him, gazes at legs that are tattered, eaten away by the maggots, and laments not being able to return it to whoever he must’ve taken it from.  Who are they?

Whatever illness the maggots bring with them has finished infecting him and taken hold of his insides, kneading and pulling and tearing them apart. He’s not sure when he started vomiting, or if it’s really him that’s doing so, but what comes out is not what went in. Where did everyone go? Is it just the darkness now? No, there is someone else, someone warm, and soft, with calloused hands. 

His mother pulls back his hair, and smiles. _“Are you sick, dearest?”_ He nods. _“Don’t worry, I’ll make it better. You just have to make one little choice for me, okay?”_  

He nods again.

_“Do you want to lose your eyes, or your tongue?”_

His vision goes black.


End file.
